


II. Coruscant Nights

by sanerontheinside



Series: Silent enim leges inter arma [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other additional characters to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Returning to the Coruscant Temple requires one to make certain... adjustments.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Silent enim leges inter arma [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/904299
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	1. Vigil

Sifo was gone. The marked unease that always haunted his sleep when they were apart had greeted Yan in the morning, along with an empty and cold half of his bed. That, and a brief note on a piece of flimsi on his nightstand—Sifo’s personal touch, his delicately curved script inscribed in a deep blue ink. It was a gentle farewell, full of promise. 

Only, of course, Dooku knew better than to trust in that promise. The future was already out of Sifo’s control. 

The grief that swamped him was stifling. He’d been staring at that piece of flimsiplast for so long, carrying it around in the breast pocket of his inner tunic since Sifo’s departure, only to learn that his Padawan had been seriously injured on Naboo. 

Yan allowed himself few material reminders of his attachments—Qui-Gon's Padawan braid, long and silken, curled in a box in his study; an anniversary Choosing gift from Komari. Sifo’s note. How fitting that every token he’d kept became sooner a memento for the remembrance of the dead, or very nearly so. Komari had vanished. When the Healers told him Qui-Gon had been injured, they’d taken care not to say how seriously, but Dooku was no fool; he knew how dire the situation must have been for them to contact him at all. 

Besides, he still had his Council codes. He could easily find out whatever he needed—and he had. 

Now Sifo was gone, and the Force had held a note of sorrowful finality since his departure. 

For the first time, Yan found himself at loose ends. Not that he had nothing to do—he simply couldn't convince his mind to settle on any of it. Agitated, his thoughts hopped from one concern to next, never long enough to do anything about it—all in an attempt to avoid thinking about the root of his anxiety. So Yan had heaved an exasperated sigh and unfurled his meditation mat, in the hopes of reasoning out his answer. 

It wasn’t any great mystery. Disappointing, even, in its mundanity, and for the fact that he’d pinned it down in a matter of seconds. 

For the first time in years he was worrying over his ‘overgrown fool of a Padawan’ again. That had surprised him; Dooku rather thought himself beyond such pointless agitation. It was unproductive. Qui-Gon was here, alive and recovering—surely there was nothing to worry about anymore. 

They'd barely exchanged a word over the last few years, mostly because both were rarely in-Temple. Even their enforced rest periods overlapped infrequently. There were few of those, too, now—the galaxy was indeed spinning into disarray, minor crises sprouting everywhere, all clamouring for immediate attention. In past years, Yan had been near-forcibly grounded—by order of Grandmaster Tyvokka himself—for a handful of short rest periods, two months at a time, at most. These days, a Master-Padawan pair was lucky to get two weeks in as many years. 

No one wanted to be forcibly grounded by injury. 

Dooku directed brisk, clipped steps down to the Healers’ Halls. It was late—Temple night-cycle, somewhere in the third hour. Few beings were about, and Yan spared a moment to wonder at that. He was sure he remembered a time when the population of the Temple had been far greater. The relative emptiness was never so obvious as during the night cycle, when he passed more insomniacs than members of nocturnal species. 

At least insomniacs had their own strange code of conduct. They never pried, never intruded, never offered him more than a solemn nod of solidarity. If they ever found someone else to share their wakefulness, it was usually someone close—though on occasion new friendships could be forged at night. He’d met Sifo that way, when they were crèchemates. These nights, Dooku was not close with any of them, nor did he signal any wish to be approached. He walked quickly, footsteps inaudible, and he only bothered to slow his pace and relax the grim lines of his expression when he finally reached the halls of the medical wing. 

Dooku was well aware that Healers all but lived in the ward, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him as he stepped into the office of his Padawan’s primary Healer. 

A young woman lay sprawled across two chairs in front of the Healer’s desk, half-buried under a dark, seemingly oversized robe. One ankle rested against the back of the chair at her feet, the other foot dangled jauntily off the arm. Her head lolled over the arm of the opposite chair in a way that made his neck ache in sympathy. 

A sleep-graveled voice startled him out of his contemplative stillness. “I have no idea how that could possibly be comfortable, but she hasn’t slid to the floor yet.” 

Dooku only managed to cover his surprise with years of practice, privately scolding himself for his distraction. He’d been so focused on the sleeping Jedi—an apprentice Healer, perhaps?—that he hadn’t seen the Master Healer behind the desk. 

“Terza,” he uttered a little too sharply. He thought better of himself, and inclined his head apologetically. “I didn't mean to disturb you.” 

Her sleepy half-glower eased. “If you have tea, I'll leave you in peace.” 

“Ah.” 

He hid a wince, though perhaps not quickly enough. Terza must have seen it, for she sighed and shook her head, pushing herself up out of her seat. 

“Never mind, you can come watch me make it. And maybe, if you're nice to me, I'll make you a cup.” 

Dooku stepped aside as she brushed past him, and shook his head. Perhaps he ought to see about getting sleep couches placed in some of the Healers’ offices. Terza had been asleep face-first on her desk, and the young Jedi sprawled across two chairs was an advertisement for backaches. He was a former Councilor, after all. People just… did things, these days, when he asked. Of course, they’d waited the ten years he’d served as Councilor to actually start  _ doing _ the things he asked them to. But he’d stepped down two years ago, now, and could no longer really find it in himself to complain. 

“Can't sleep?” Terza asked as she made her way over to a nook Dooku had never previously noticed. The size of a modest supply closet at best, it housed a small kitchen for the Healers and some emergency supplies for patients—small juice packages in case of low blood sugar in humanoids, supplies for other species that he could not immediately identify or recall. 

“They told me my Padawan was injured. I thought perhaps I’d look in on him.”

“It's the middle of the night,” the Healer noted, her expression carefully blank. 

Neither judgement nor criticism; perhaps simple curiosity, but Yan didn’t feel like answering it. He met it with a neat deflection, instead: “And you're still here.” Dooku arched a dark eyebrow. “That seems worrisome.” 

Terza sighed, reaching up for two dark red mugs and then a box of tea. “He hasn't been your Padawan for years, Master Dooku. There's a limit to what I can tell you.” 

“Of course.” 

She turned to give him a hard look, as if trying to pierce through his carefully cultivated mask as she considered her next words. “There's no way around the fact that he almost died. If Master Sifo-Dyas hadn't warned us—" 

“Sifo?” Surprised, Dooku stepped back, right up against the counter behind him. “He warned you? About Qui-Gon?” 

“Not exactly.” She shifted, turned to prepare the blend, hands fluttering through the ritual with practiced precision as she spoke. “He told us of the invasion of Naboo before the Senate ever heard word of it. He said the army had begun placing the Naboo in camps, and that the Naboo would likely try to resist the invasion. Master Sifo-Dyas asked if we had anyone to spare, in the hopes of assisting them. Of course, this just so happened to coincide with a dire necessity for research of Gungan physiology.” 

A few moments’ silence hung in the air as she tapped her fingers against the counter in a faint rhythm, counting down the last seconds for the tea to brew. 

“When was this?”

“Three tens ago.” 

Three tens. That was the night when he’d begged Sifo not to follow the siren call of that vision. Yan thought he'd convinced Sifo to stay, that night. He’d awakened to an empty bed the next morning, felt cold horror wrap its hands around his throat, thinking that he had failed. But then a soft touch to the bond between them reassured him of Sifo’s nearness. Yan had found him in the Meditation Gardens, a gentle smile smoothing out tired and worried lines on his face, the sharpness of his features softened by the warmth of the morning light. That morning, and the next, and the morning after that, he’d known hope. 

Terza turned back to him, cup of tea in her outstretched hand, which Dooku automatically accepted. 

“He also told us that the team of Knights sent to protect Queen Amidala were likely to run into trouble, and would be seriously in need of our assistance.” 

Terza leaned back against the counter, staring into her mug as she cradled it close—though Dooku was sure it should have burned her hands. 

“Team of Knights? But they only sent Qui-Gon and his Padawan?” 

She shrugged. “I am given to understand that Padawan Kenobi earned his Knighthood on Naboo.” 

That struck Master Dooku suddenly, and hard. 

He’d never met Obi-Wan Kenobi. Oh, he’d heard stories— _ everyone _ had heard stories about the Jinn-Kenobi team. They’d practically made it into Temple lexicon; ‘Jinn-Kenobi missions’ were the type where everything went to shit, and Councilors complained at length about the reports young Kenobi filed—“with passive-aggressive punctiliousness,” as Mace had put it. 

(Of course, Mace also made a few passing comments on the quality of Jinn’s reports, but Dooku tended to agree with his former Padawan: so long as the salient points were there, the details were largely irrelevant. It just so happened that Qui-Gon’s details tended to be on the revolutionary scale. In his Padawan’s defense, though, Dooku had  _ seen _ Qui-Gon get pulled into these sorts of things, and  _ he _ couldn’t explain how the hell it had happened, either.) 

Dooku pulled himself away from thoughts that were shaped a little too much like regret for his comfort, and sighed. “We’ve lost too many, in these last few years.” 

Eyes unfocused, Terza stared at some abstract point and nodded. “Without those two, the Light of the Order would be rather dimmed.”

Dooku said nothing, and turned his attention to the mug in his hands instead. The tea, when it finally touched his lips, sent a rush of warmth through him. It cleared the late-night fog from his mind; the scent brought to mind a pleasant spectrum of cool blues and greens, though he’d never really associated scents with colours before. When he looked up, Terza gave him a knowing smile. 

“Gift from a very good friend,” she said. “Outer Rim, very specific regional blend. It was a gift to her, apparently.”

“Your friend is incredibly generous.” Dooku stared down at the liquid’s surface, slightly stunned. 

Terza laughed quietly and shook her head. “I suspect she ran the risk of abandoning her addiction to caff for an addiction to something far less accessible.” 

“Mm,” he managed, once again overwhelmed and dragged under by the glorious complexity of the brew. Only after about two thirds of the mug did he recover wits enough to ask, “May I see him?” 

Terza nodded. “Far end of the hall, on the left.”

* * *

Obi-Wan was half-awake, seated on a bench near the door. He had propped himself up against the wall; a young boy lay curled up against him, golden head in his lap. That it was the Temple night cycle didn't seem to matter: he was watching his Master in spite of heavy, drooping eyelids, stubbornly clinging to wakefulness. That, Dooku thought, with a sudden rush of nostalgia, had once been his task. Many, many years ago. 

Now, his former Padawan lay still and pale, and far too thin, a breathing mask over his mouth and nose. The boy beside Obi-Wan Kenobi slept without dreams; Qui-Gon's face was pinched. 

What a strange sight they were, Yan thought: a young Knight with a Padawan braid, and a child in ragged clothes, wrapped in a medical-issue blanket. Watching from the door, unobserved and unobtrusive, Dooku felt almost as though he were intruding. 

But they all three of them had one heavy weight in common, worrying over the fate of Qui-Gon Jinn. Dooku suddenly felt bowed with it, like he had not been in decades. 

“Padawan,” he said softly, feeling an old twinge. 

A pair of bright green eyes snapped up to him. To his credit, Obi-Wan didn’t startle, though he probably hadn’t been expecting visitors at this hour. He simply turned a cool, assessing gaze on Dooku—politely questioning, even. 

Yan couldn’t quite articulate what was unsettling about it. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you. I wanted to see—my Padawan,” Dooku offered, shoving his sudden discomfort aside. 

Obi-Wan nodded, as if that were obvious enough. “He’s just fallen asleep again, I’m afraid.” 

“That’s all right.” 

Yan cast a quick glance about the little room. There was a chair up against the far wall; he picked it up easily and moved it near the foot of the bed, a comfortable distance from his Grandpadawan. 

“I’d also come to realise that we haven’t been introduced, and I felt it was time to rectify the situation.”

It wasn’t a proper introduction, not the kind he would have wished for. But Obi-Wan looked like several hundred klicks of bad road, and Yan thought that perhaps the young man could use a distraction. Force knew, he wouldn’t mind it himself. Dooku was pleased to see the glint in Obi-Wan’s eye, the court- and senate-perfect nod, the polite and utterly flawless response delivered in turn, without hesitation. 

“Tell me my Padawan has been taking care of himself,” Yan said quietly, his own eyes heavy with sleepless nights. 

Obi-Wan offered him a thin smile. “I’m afraid he hasn’t been given a choice in the matter,” he said. 

That surprised a laugh out of the Jedi Master. “Oh, finally, someone who knows how to keep him in check,” Yan said, through a quiet chuckle. 

“Alas, I regret to disappoint you, Master,” Obi-Wan replied smoothly, “but I don’t believe anyone in this Temple is possessed of such a talent.” 

“Do you doubt me, Knight Kenobi?” Dooku said archly. 

“Of course not. As the Master, so the Padawan, as I’ve often been told.”

Now that quick turn of wit was painfully familiar. Dooku snorted, and shot the young Jedi a pointed look. 

“You must be great fun at parties,” he commented dryly. “Kings and Queens have taken heads for less talented tongues, you know.” 

“Duly noted, Master,” Knight Kenobi replied. “I shall endeavour to keep my talents in my own head, and my head to myself.”

He sounded  _ almost _ contrite—but Dooku was wary of it now. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were obviously a well-matched pair, and he was beginning to wonder what other irritating quirks of Qui-Gon’s had been elevated to high art by his apprentice. 

Of course, now that he no longer had a Padawan of his own to discipline, he could almost appreciate those quirks. 

_ Almost. _

“And who is your young charge?”

An odd look briefly flickered across Obi-Wan’s face—there and gone in an instant. “An Initiate,” Obi-Wan said. “Recently accepted to the Temple crèche.” 

“Oh? Did he transfer from one of our satellites?” 

“Not quite.” Obi-Wan’s expression was shuttered. “We were stranded on Tatooine, in need of replacement parts for the Naboo cruiser. Anakin helped us secure the parts,” he glanced down at the sleeping child, “and apparently won his own freedom—pod racing.” 

Dooku felt his eyebrows creep up. “He’s… a bit old to be accepted as an Initiate, isn’t he?” 

Obi-Wan made a noncommittal noise. Yan pretended to mull it over for a minute, mostly watching the young Knight instead. Obi-Wan gave away little, but the way his arm rested over the boy’s shoulder was distinctly protective. 

“Well,” he said finally, “Qui-Gon always did have a way with unusual students. And a habit of picking up strays.” 

Obi-Wan seemed, if possible, even more wary now. “Unusual. Like Xanatos?” 

That was thoughtless. He’d walked into that himself, Yan knew, but he didn’t allow himself to betray his reaction with so much as a twitch. 

“DuCrion’s Fall was a choice,” he said, firmly. “His  _ own _ choice.” 

The tension held for another moment; then Obi-Wan let himself uncoil. “Yes. A choice he made repeatedly.” 

Yan nodded. “Precisely that.”

It had taken years for Qui-Gon to even begin to accept that as a possibility—thanks in no small part to the young man who now sat beside him and guarded his dreams. At least, Yan suspected as much: Qui-Gon’s change of heart corresponded with the appearance of a third apprentice in his life. While early reports on Padawan Kenobi had been somewhat mixed, well—everyone had an adjustment period, and keeping up with Qui-Gon Jinn required a certain amount of trust. 

For all his stern admonishments on the dangers of attachment and inevitability of betrayal—though he still believed he was correct—Yan thought he’d come to understand Qui-Gon a little better in the intervening years. His former apprentice needed those connections, and no amount of training could extinguish that need or replace it. 

“Xanatos was, nevertheless, a gifted student,” Yan added, pulling himself away from all the things he and his former Padawan would never agree on. Dire thoughts, indeed. “And few Masters could keep up with Feemor Tsals.”

“Tsals?” Obi-Wan tried out the name, uncertain. “I’ve never met him.” 

“You wouldn’t have. He hasn’t been seen back at the Temple in years. Actually, last I heard, he’d been deployed to Bandomeer, to clean up the mess Offworld left behind. Qui-Gon’s affinity to the Living Force is undisputed, and they were a good match in that regard. Knight Tsals has been making good headway with land restoration.” 

“I didn’t know Master Qui-Gon had another Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, puzzled. 

Ah. Of course not. “Qui-Gon took over the last three years of his training,” Yan explained, “and tends to underestimate just how much of an impact his teachings had.” 

Foolish of him, but understandable. The first Apprentice Qui-Gon had been responsible for, from Choosing to Trial, went and Fell at the age of twenty-one. Plenty of time to get attached there, Yan thought. Feemor has been a friend, if not an equal, and he’d come under Qui-Gon’s instruction almost fully formed, habits and quirks already set, both good and bad. He hadn’t  _ needed _ Qui-Gon for guidance, not in the way a young Initiate might. 

Dooku had never been very good at open displays of affection, himself; he couldn’t sit for hours at his Padawan’s bedside as the boy rambled through a fever. Qui-Gon was—different. He’d raised Xanatos, and cared for the boy deeply, through every illness and injury and anything Xanatos cared to share with him. Three years of being partnered with an almost-Knight must have looked quite irrelevant, next to that. 

Judging by the expression on Obi-Wan’s face, he’d easily reached the same conclusion. 

On the spur of the moment, Yan decided to elaborate a little. “Feemor’s Master was embroiled in what, by rights, should have been considered a diplomatic dispute, and was killed for being too much of a nuisance to the governing body. Fomenting a revolution, I believe the charge was—by teaching the locals how to grow their own food. Qui-Gon was sent to mitigate the situation, against all sense. But Qui-Gon succeeded where Feemor’s Master had not, and young Padawan Tsals proved a quick study.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “I see. I suppose I thought we would have been introduced at some point, even so.”

Yan huffed, amused. “You never even met me.” 

Obi-Wan bent an unimpressed, if mild, look at him that seemed to say,  _ your point? _

Yan supposed that was fair enough, but there were extenuating circumstances. 

“Master Yoda’s lineage is one of wanderers. And, perhaps, we could stand to learn a thing or two about keeping in contact with old friends.”

_ Or, perhaps, swallowing our pride and negotiating a truce, _ Yan added silently, glancing over at Qui-Gon. He wasn’t sure which one of them deserved that criticism more. Jo would probably tell him that he ought to be old enough to know better, but he couldn’t help thinking that Qui-Gon didn’t need him there. Even after Xanatos’s betrayal, when Dooku had attempted to offer his assistance, Qui-Gon’s response had been uncharacteristically biting. 

_ As you said, my Master—my tendency to get attached would only be my downfall. I am merely striving to live up to your example. _

That had felt rather like a slap in the face, for some reason. Yan thought he would’ve felt vindicated—at last, his Padawan was learning. But it wasn’t a lesson he’d ever wanted Qui-Gon to learn, for all he knew it to be inevitable; certainly, it should not have come in the form of the loss of a Padawan. 

All the same, Yan had murmured his apologies and seen himself out the door. He probably should have stayed. 

“I suppose it rather does create the impression that we can tackle anything on our own,” Yan muttered. “The Council should never have sent you out to investigate that blockade without backup.” 

Obi-Wan frowned at him. “The Council didn’t send us,” he said. “We went at Chancellor Valorum’s personal request.” 

That brought him up short. “What—why?”

The rueful half-smile on Obi-Wan’s face reminded him so strongly of Qui-Gon, an ache lanced through his chest at the sight of it. “Because the Chancellor can no longer assign missions to the Jedi without the Senate’s approval, and the Trade Federation has a seat on the Senate.” 

Yan nodded slowly. “True. The corruption of the Senate knows no bounds. But the Council certainly miscalculated, sending you and your Master  _ back _ to Naboo without assistance.”

Obi-Wan shrugged, suddenly looking young and lost and uncomfortable again. His eyes slid back to Qui-Gon’s still form. “Perhaps they did.” 

It seemed odd, that Qui-Gon’s apprentice would hesitate to criticise the Council. Yan had been particularly proud of that tendency in his Padawan, for all that he felt Qui-Gon was honing his skill on the strength of his Master's nerves. Still, Yan had never actually discouraged him. There was an art to expressing one’s displeasure, in such a way that the Council understood your point but could not, in fact, hold any of your words against you. He’d enjoyed teaching Qui-Gon the art of subtlety and double-talk, and his student had taken to it like a fish to water. 

Obi-Wan’s reticence seemed entirely inexplicable, particularly when he’d been so quick to needle his own grand-Master, whom he’d only just met. 

Or perhaps that wasn’t the problem, Yan realised. Master Yan Dooku, whoever he might be, was not a Council member (not anymore), and he had no say over Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life. Obi-Wan was a young man only just Knighted, and his Master likely wouldn’t be there to defend him, should any Council member choose to make his life difficult. Obi-Wan had spent most of his Apprenticeship out of Temple, and Yan knew how isolating that sort of life was, for all that it had been Qui-Gon’s friend Tahl who’d driven home the point that his  _ young Padawan _ felt it far more keenly. 

He was wondering what to say to that, short of offering the young man his support—which would be unfair meddling, and wouldn’t permit Obi-Wan to learn to speak for himself—when he sensed a Healer’s approach. Terza appeared in the doorway seconds later, and gave him a faint nod. 

Then she turned her attention to the young Knight, complete with a pointed look. “Obi-Wan. I am going to drug your tea.” 

The young man’s lips thinned to a stubborn line, but Terza didn’t let him get a word in edgewise. 

“You can sleep in your quarters, or you can sleep here. Just know that if you choose the latter option, tomorrow I will definitely order you back to your quarters, with the expectation that you shower, feed yourself a decent meal, and get at least three hours of sleep in. In a  _ bed. _ Am I understood?” 

Obi-Wan gave in with grace. “Yes, Healer,” he said, and bowed as best as he was able from his seat. 

Dooku sighed, and took that as his own cue to leave. “I look forward to getting to know you a bit more, grand-Padawan. Rest well.” 

Obi-Wan gave him an equally respectful nod and quietly bid him good night. For a moment, as Dooku passed her in the doorway, he thought Terza wanted to say something. Whatever it was, in the end, she must have decided not to. 

* * *

Terza’s nighttime rounds were almost always quiet. There were stubborn stragglers like Kenobi, but she couldn’t blame him for worrying. Qui-Gon had been improving on Naboo, but then he’d taken a four-day jaunt through hyperspace. For most Jedi, it was a somewhat uncomfortable experience; for a Master of the Living Force, it was a drastic change from the Theed Palace gardens, and a serious stressor to the injured Jedi. 

Another spell in the bacta tank had certainly helped. In that time, Obi-Wan hadn’t stepped away for more than a few moments. Terza instructed the Apprentice Healers to let him stay, ostensibly because he was still under observation for the psychic overextension. 

He was going to be paying for that overextension in persistent low-level fatigue for the next few months, so far as Terza could tell from available data. Medically speaking, Obi-Wan probably didn’t need constant Healer oversight any longer, but hyperspace travel hadn’t done him any favours either. On balance, if Terza had to choose between Obi-Wan worrying about his Master and not sleeping in the Healers’ Halls, or Obi-Wan worrying and not sleeping somewhere else, she preferred he do the worrying where she could keep an eye on him. 

He wasn’t the only stubborn straggler Terza had to contend with tonight, but the one in her office was a bit of a mystery. 

Terza eyed the crumpled figure stretched across the two chairs in front of her desk. “Don’t you have your own room, Lia?” she said. 

The heap of cloak and limbs shifted and grumbled. “Too quiet. You know Temple Guards don’t talk? At least Healers yell at you.” 

Terza snorted into her fresh mug of steaming tea, and edged around her desk, careful not to disturb the datapads, or the snowdrift of ink-laden flimsi notepads. “Your quarantine is over, and you’re willingly staying another day to get yelled at by Apprentice Healers.”

Lia scrambled up, with stiff-muscled difficulty, from her awkward sprawl, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “Don’t—” she fought through a yawn “—don’t forget, I don’t know anyone anymore.” 

That was likely true enough; Terza remembered the gangly limbs, the injuries, the bookish withdrawn Padawan who sat curled up on a biobed reading about all sorts of things that caught her interest, usually diseases and infections. Terza had enjoyed feeding the young girl’s curiosity, and even thought that she might one day snag another brilliant Apprentice Healer, or a medical researcher, at least. She’d even recommended Lia for Corellia’s field medic training program herself. 

Liura had done well in the program. She held highest marks in both theory and practicum seen in the last twenty years. By the time she completed the training, Lia was one of very few qualified Senior Padawans permitted to volunteer for a crisis mission on the Mid Rim. But after that, Terza had lost track of her. 

She’d always assumed Lia had been Knighted and transferred to a full-time posting on Corellia, or one of the worlds the Corellian Jedi served. Lia hadn’t returned to the Coruscant Temple in over a decade, and few of her agemates were not assigned elsewhere in the galaxy—Terza had checked. It seemed especially a pity that she didn’t remember Lia’s closest friends all that well. One of Lia’s agemates had visited her quite frequently whenever Lia was at the Healers’, but… Zekarion had died some months before Liura left Coruscant. 

“I’m very sorry,” said Terza, “that your re-introduction to the Temple had to start with us.” 

“I’m not. The other option happens to be the Council.” Lia looked up finally and grinned. “Besides, you’ll be seeing more of me soon.”

“Yes, bacta. Thank you for that. Master Jinn practically owes you his life.”

Lia dipped her head with a faint smile. “I’m glad. I had no idea about the blockade, and I don’t want to imagine what the Trade Federation would have made of it if they got their grubby little flippers on that shipment.”

Terza agreed, but it wasn’t the question foremost on her mind. 

“I’ve wanted to ask you—how did you know to send it to Naboo? There’s… no mention of any tendency to prescient visions in your file.” 

Said file had already been chock-full of surprises, not least of which was the twelve-year gap in medical history. Terza had already been planning a call to the Corellian Temple’s Healers regarding the importance of  _ sharing information. _ Then the first attempt at testing a blood sample had raised an instant error message: [This identity has already been entered in system, please attempt again]. 

The second attempt had brought back a more concerning alert: 

_ Identity: Liura Shar’ii _ __   
_ Rank: Senior Padawan _ _   
_ __ Status: Inactive; PKIA

(“Yes,” Terza had explained patiently to an attendant droid, “and she’s sitting right in front of me.”

Liura chose that precise moment to mimic the droid’s voice box with eerie accuracy, and said, “All things are possible in the Force.” 

The droid had been far more amused than the Healer.) 

Terza had somehow never imagined that Lia might leave the Order, but the records—or lack thereof—told a different story. Jedi missing for longer than five years were presumed killed in action; the missing medical history indicated that Liura had dropped out of contact for at least twelve years. 

Lia shrugged, uncomfortable. “Well, there wouldn’t be. My Master was certain my gifts did not lie in that direction.”

Terza made a soft, sympathetic noise in the back of her throat, but if anything Lia looked more uncomfortable.

“He wasn’t exactly wrong.” 

“You saved the life of a Jedi Master, Li. Maybe you should let that guide your estimation of your abilities.” 

Lia snorted softly. “Perhaps there is some room to develop my skills in that direction, but I haven’t really had the time. One moment of insight amid a hundred murky hints seems of a bit less value than consistency.”

Terza scowled at her. “As your Healer, it is my duty to inform you that you are actively damaging your mental health by putting yourself down. Stop thinking in terms of what you lack and start acknowledging what you’re good at. I won’t clear you for duty until you do.” 

Lia sat back, surprised. Terza noted, with some interest, that the young woman looked wary. 

“I—that is,” Lia cleared her throat, “the Council never said anything about reinstating me. Or allowing me to stay.” 

“Don’t think for a moment I’ll let you back out before I’ve got you patched up, see if I don’t. I outrank the Council on medical matters, and I’ll treat a civilian if I bloody well want to.” 

Lia’s eyes glimmered suddenly with suspicious moisture, and she quickly ducked her head. “Thank you, Master.”

Terza gave her a moment to recover, then changed the subject. “Tell me about the bacta.” 

Lia shrugged, her gaze still focused on her hands where they lay folded in her lap. “It’s difficult to describe. An entirely new species of microorganism, a colony of which essentially bolsters your immune system and makes it more efficient? And, I suspect, it’s Force sensitive. Sounds like something out of fairytales, doesn’t it?” 

“Are the Vratix Force sensitive?”

“Not that I’ve been able to tell. There’s probably an argument to be made for latent Force sensitivity, but I can’t imagine that debate has been settled since I’ve left the Order,” Lia added wryly. 

Terza snorted. “Ask Master Nu.” 

“ _ No, _ thank you,” was Lia’s quick and prim retort. “Wasn’t itching for a repeat of Year II Philosophy with Master Ahn.”

“Well, you never know; Master Nu might come down on your side in an argument—if it’s well-sourced and strongly backed.” 

“She  _ did, _ ” Lia said, a sour look on her face, “and earned me the permanent ill graces of the teaching Master in the process.” 

Terza couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Oh, I see. You impressed the Head Archivist, but somehow this isn’t achievement enough for you.”

“I wanted to pass the class  _ without _ earning a permanent stink-eye from Master Ahn,” Lia grumbled back at her. “How dare I agree with her Master, indeed.”

The Healer shook her head, tamping down her amusement. Still, the thought of Jocasta Nu reminded her—“There are some old records, actually, of the use of Kolto during the Sith Wars. There were some intriguing passages that suggested the material was Force sensitive, and could be—instructed, almost, by a Healer.”

Lia grinned up at her. “Bacta is  _ chatty, _ if you know what to listen for. Highly adaptable, given the right parameters. I rather thought you might like to look into the Force-control of it—could help Healers develop a fine control over the healing process.”

Terza nodded. “What interest did the Vratix have in sharing it with us? I can’t imagine you spoke to them about the Force.”

“The sample the Vratix shared is tailored to suit Human physiology, per their agreement with Eriadan business partners, but they feel their current development horizon is quite limited. The Vratix expressed an interest in learning more about other species. They seemed genuinely upset that their product has never made it into major trade, and is instead being monopolised by the Eriadan elite.”

Terza raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose sharing with the Order ensures that a corporation will not take advantage of them and their product?” 

“Well, the Order is not a member of the galactic market, as such. Most of what you produce is open-source, for all the Service Corps hold the patents on a number of things. You also have the distinction of being considered an educational establishment with means to do the kind of research most corporations can’t do. How’s the Order’s funding on that end, by the way?”

Terza thought about it for a minute. 

“Better than most other ends,” she admitted. “Appropriations has taken on the new strategy of allocating funds to specific activities, it’s becoming intolerable. But research is still solid. It’s not like we’ll be the ones making money on it in the end, anyway—we'll have to hand our work over for some company to produce.” 

Lia pulled a face. “Tell me that’s not a legal requirement.” 

“More of a monetary one,” Terza said. “The costs of production are simply prohibitive, and we don’t exactly have the space. Starting a new company of our own? Force help us, I’m not sure we could afford that either. The certification and quality assurance costs for medical devices and pharmaceuticals alone are staggering.” 

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” Lia said. 

It was said simply, glossed over as the young woman went on to describe some of the more specific details she’d learned while watching the Vratix’s production process. Terza decided she’d been joking and put the topic firmly out of mind. 

It was easy—bacta was a fascinating new thing. There had been vanishingly few instances of an allergic reaction, though Terza could foresee potential difficulties with confinement in the tanks. Lia confirmed that ways of handling that particular issue were limited and not well established, since Vratix tended not to have a problem with the confinement. 

“There is a bacta mist variant for lung infections, and a topical salve—which, I take it, is what you’ve been using to treat Master Jinn’s injuries while the tank was not available.” 

“For the most part,” Terza confirmed. “But there was a marked improvement when we got him back to Coruscant and put him back in a tank. He didn’t take travel very well.” 

Liura went sharp-eyed. “Improved how?”

Terza sighed and sat back. She was still debating just how much of her patients’ medical information she was comfortable sharing with Liura, even in view of the fact that Lia had seen the value of bacta and sent a sample back to the Order. 

But then again: Liura Shar’ii was a field-certified medic. Whatever Lia’s reasons for not seeing a doctor herself in the last decade, she hadn’t neglected keeping her certification up to date—she had the Republic-issued papers to prove it, even. The Republic system might not know what to make of Force-sensitive Healers, but Liura was still a medical professional. 

“The Naboo were able to provide us with some cloned tissue. We reconstructed the ribs, where damaged, using a bone-scaffolding matrix implant. As you know, muscle scaffolding matrices are still much more difficult to work with than bone matrix. We’ve repaired the damage to the diaphragm and the intercostal muscles as best as possible. So far, the foreign tissue and the implants have not been rejected. 

“Exposure to bacta has shown  _ remarkably _ fast and orderly growth of muscle tissue along the scaffolding material,” Terza continued. “Master Jinn had a low-grade fever for the final forty-eight hours of the return flight. In bacta, his body temperature reverted to normal within an hour.”

Lia bit her lip thoughtfully. “He’s breathing on his own?” 

Terza tilted her head, not all that surprised at the question.  _ Oh, you noticed, _ she thought,  _ well done. _

“He has been, since we took him out of the bacta tank the first time,” she replied. 

Lia hadn’t seen the scans, but she seemed to have a good estimate of the radius a lightsaber wound would have. Terza wasn’t certain whether she should be impressed or morbidly fascinated. 

“If you’re asking about nerve damage, it appears that Padawan Kenobi managed to reverse some of the heat injury in his attempts to manage his Master’s shock response. Master Jinn still has use of most of his involuntary breathing control apparatus.” 

“Well now you’re just burying the lede,” Lia complained. “We  _ know _ nerves are even more of a bitch to fix than musculature.”

“I’m more interested in the fact that Kenobi has very limited Healer training, and yet managed to treat the injury appropriately where most first-responding Healers tend to miss the opportunity,” Terza remarked. “The optimal window for that kind of attempt is very narrow.” 

“It's a very complex technique, at that.” 

“Exactly. Obi-Wan’s success also makes it difficult to judge exactly how effective bacta is on that front, I’d say.” 

Lia was suitably impressed. So was Terza, actually. She’d thought, after Obi-Wan finally succumbed to psychic exhaustion, that there was no way Qui-Gon Jinn would be able to fight his way back from the edge, not when he’d needed every last bit of his stubborn Padawan’s reserves just to hold on this long. But some twenty eight hours later, he was still there—recovering, and apparently even healing on his own. Bacta or no, Terza had been sorely tempted to check on Kenobi, to see if he wasn’t trying to send some amount of energy to Jinn against all her admonitions. 

She found Kenobi sleeping the sleep of the recently-beaten-within-an-inch-of-their-life. 

“That’s quite a confounding variable,” Liura agreed, after a moment’s thought. “Though really that confounding variable must apply to all of it—muscle, bone, lung.”

“Stomach and spleen, and nearly pancreas,” Terza nodded. “Yes it does. The lung is… superficially scarred, not much we can do about that. We will monitor Master Jinn for any sign of breathing difficulties, pneumonia, or infection, and re-evaluate his condition in at least a year to determine whether there is a necessity for cloned replacement organs. If,” Terza couldn’t resist adding bitterly, “such are still available.”

Liura slumped back in her seat and subjected Terza to another long, evaluating stare at that. 

“You know,” she said eventually, with the air of a cat picking her way carefully across uncertain terrain, “this  _ is _ an educational and research institution. There are a number of worlds that have a—rather  _ dim _ view of Republic legislature on the point of cloned tissues, who might be interested in some of the Order’s projects. An exchange of ideas, if you will.” 

“I hope you’re not suggesting—”

“Something that would put the Order at risk? No, I really wouldn’t like to,” Liura interjected. “But I can think of several entities who work with very advanced tissue replacement matrices. And, as you know, anything created on a matrix from multipotent or induced-pluripotent patient cells is not considered a cloned tissue.”

“Right, because you’re using cells harvested from the patient, even if they’re altered to suit your needs,” said Terza. “Simply an older form of genetic, structural engineering.”

“No one wants to work with mega-corporations, and I wouldn’t recommend it, either.” Liura frowned, rubbing at the spot between thumb and forefinger absently. “Smaller companies are struggling in this economy. Mega-corporations are delivering better and faster, at cheaper prices, and some particularly popular products are even sold at a loss. On top of that, they’ve been—well, they’ve literally taken mining rights by force, you know this, but they’ve also been sabotaging production lines and research and all sorts of—” Lia cut off the recitation with a harsh cough. “Anyway. Some of the more fortunate companies have been outsourcing production and increasing their trade with the Outer Rim. Smugglers have been carrying a lot of legitimate cargo lately.” 

Terza gave the thought a moment to settle. “You’re thinking of doing business with the Outer Rim? Or—” 

“Or. There are still relatively few companies on the Rim who can compete with Republic tech. They’ve had their own economic crisis to scramble out of for the last—oh, about five years. That’s not quite enough time for a full recovery.”

There were a few companies Terza hadn’t heard about in some time. Some had filed for bankruptcy ages ago, unable to compete, but some had held their own, for better or for worse, against TechnoUnion and Trade Federation pressures. 

Then, of course, there were a number of systems nearer to the Core that went a bit blind over certain Republic policy, but Lia hadn’t mentioned those. 

“It’s still a corporate partnership,” Terza said finally. “It’s all too easy to imagine ending up in a situation similar to the Vratix.”

“Force knows the Order is full enough of good negotiators, we could always write up a limited and agreeable contract. They still need a legitimate Republic Core or Mid-Rim contract, whether it’s research or trade, to qualify for certain tax breaks. The less trade you do in the Republic, the more expensive it gets to pay membership.” Lia shrugged. “It’s just a thought. Unless you own a significant portion of company shares, or have a founding member’s stake, what you fear will always be a risk. Of course, now isn’t exactly the best time to be building up a new company, not unless you’re Outer Rim.” 

Terza just stared at her for a long moment. “What have you been doing for the last decade,” she muttered. 

“Lots of things.” Lia’s smile was bright, full of teeth, but not a lot of joy. “Lots of only slightly legal things.”


	2. Rogue

She stood before the Reconciliation Council, hands folded before her solemnly, and took in the lay of the land—comparing it against what she remembered. 

Saesee Tiin and Plo Koon held the permanent positions, that hadn’t changed. There was a Jedi whom she’d never seen, who had been introduced to her as Boda MonMassa, the current Master of Shadows. Oppo Rancisis did not hold a permanent seat, but he had been on the council that Lia remembered. That meant he must have swapped a five-year term with someone—Lia wondered who. Perhaps Master Rancisis had taken a Padawan in the interim. Whatever the reason, it also meant that he was a few years into this rotation—at least, if the previous Master had served a full term. Adi Gallia had been sworn in recently, as well, though how Master Gallia’s term was staggered against the rest, Lia did not remember. 

“Liura Shar’ii, we welcome you back to the Coruscant Temple,” Saesee said, opening the session. His voice carried authority and solemnity, and in that it almost rivaled Mace Windu’s. 

“Masters,” Liura said, and bowed slightly. 

“Shall we begin with Knight Kafres’s report on Eriadu?” Master Tiin picked up a datapad from its precarious resting place on the arm of his chair and activated it. “Knight Selahe Kafres reports that in the course of his mission, he made contact with a Jedi who claimed to be based in Eriadu City. This individual stated that their assignment was watching the Eriadu courts, which they claimed to have been doing for the last six months. The Council has found no record of such an assignment given by any Temple. 

“Now: Liura Shar’ii, you entered the Eriadu City West Spaceport only three days prior to Kafres’s arrival. You misrepresented the facts and deliberately misled Knight Kafres. Would you care to explain your actions?” 

Liura shrugged. “Selahe Kafres has been only very recently Knighted; no more than a couple months, I understand. Knight Kafres did not have the experience necessary to navigate the upper echelon of Eriadu society. If nothing else, he lacked requisite background information, such as: which families are feuding, which are allies—ah,  _ beyond _ the Tarkin-Valorum rivalry. It’s helpful to have a finger on the pulse of precisely which products the more well-positioned families trade in, and how that determines their sphere of influence. Not having this background, Knight Kafres was ill-equipped to choose his own friends wisely. I stepped in before he was forced to make allies in the city brig.” 

“And it was necessary for you to pass yourself off as a Jedi on assignment,” Councilor Tiin said flatly, suggesting some degree of disbelief. 

“In a sense. It was certainly easier than having to explain how a civilian came by such heavy shielding, and an uncanny knowledge of Eriadu and the Order’s functioning.” 

“Speak plainly, please,” Master Rancisis suggested, though his tone was mild. 

“Plainly, then,” Liura acquiesced. “Kafres would not have listened to a civilian.” 

Silences in Council chambers, Lia reflected, were almost never truly empty. There was a muted mix of hints, almost like scents, that spoke of discomfited shifting and flimsi-thin amusement. The value of her judgement had been recognised, at least, Liura decided, but for the purposes of this hearing it would be tactfully ignored. Perhaps someone might make a comment to Knight Kafres on the importance of gathering and verifying information from outside sources, later. Perhaps it would even help. 

Really, though, that was the sort of thing every field Jedi had to learn for themselves one day. The process could be painful; on Eriadu, in the current climate—well, perhaps it wouldn’t be  _ deadly, _ but so long as the Tarkin family held the gubernatorial seat, it would definitely be unpleasant. House Tarkin tended to foster and encourage a certain degree of political turnover, and they did so with the help of subtle dealings with less savoury ‘businessmen’ as readily as they did with legitimate entities. 

Lia suppressed a flicker of mild irritation. Knights weren’t supposed to be sent out so unprepared, and by the Force,  _ she _ wasn’t the one who should be teaching them. 

Master Tiin cleared his throat, and pressed on. “So you inveigled yourself into a Jedi mission under pretense of offering assistance to a young, inexperienced Knight, thereby jeopardising both the Knight and the assignment.” 

She’d never really been afraid of the Council Masters, Liura reflected, or terribly intimidated by them. But her younger self would surely be appalled at the irreverence that Lia showed them now as she tilted her head and answered, “Perhaps.” 

Master Rancisis, soft and sibilant-voiced, took over the questioning. “What was the purpose of your visit to Eriadu?” 

“Business,” Lia replied, a bit brusquely, and fought the sudden urge to stare up at the ceiling. “Some of my ships have gone missing in Eriadu space.” 

Over the last year or so, Governor Tarkin had been busy trying to corner the shipping market and maneuvering his favoured companies into place. He’d done so with the help of a local band of pirates. Lia hadn’t been above buying them off for her own purposes. What a pity that people like Tarkin always undervalued their hired help. 

Master Rancisis had paused, apparently a little thrown. “You are a trader?” 

Lia smiled, slightly. “Of a sort.” 

‘Smuggler’ would only marginally be more appropriate, but these days it wouldn’t be entirely true, either. Most of her sources were now very much legitimate. It didn’t help when she lost ships, though. It was still a delicate operation, hardly meant to stretch across a network of more than twenty systems. The destruction of Yibbikoror two years ago, and with it several crews who had willingly, regularly made deliveries for her—that was a disaster that had set her too far back for peace of mind, and the network was still recovering. 

“And what do you trade in?” asked Master Tiin. 

“Basic life support. Medical supplies and rations, various critical dietary supplements to combat diseases of malnutrition.” 

_ And building materials, and occasionally weapons, _ Lia didn’t say.  _ A group of mercenaries to stand guard over the people distributing supplies. Food where we can get it, and equipment too. And the people I’ve trained, train the next, and the next. _

She did it on autopilot, these days: a running list, a complex system of gears and levers and balances in her head, ticked away without her conscious maintenance. This world needed antibiotics, that one antifungals; this place had a lot of decent medics and could stand to send a few elsewhere; a single hop away they needed water filters, and on the other side of the galaxy it seemed like a war was about to start and she wouldn’t be able to do a thing about that at all. To add insult to injury, she would lose access to the dermaplast supplier she’d been working with for years. 

All in a day’s work, as the saying went. 

Master Tiin looked all disapproval, of course. “You understand re-sale of medical supplies and equipment is heavily controlled, yes? You have a license for this?” 

They were getting off-track, and Lia wasn’t too keen on sharing operational details. “You know,” she said, “I can't help thinking that you wouldn’t question a civilian in this manner. A civilian contact might, in the very worst cases, be turned over to the proper authorities—that is to say, Judicial, or in this case perhaps the Eriadu Security Forces. Yet, here I am, standing before the Reconciliation Council as though I’d never left.”

Master Gallia cut in before anyone else could answer that, calm and measured in her reply. “Would you rather discuss your licensing with Judicial?”

Calm was good, Lia thought, but she also had a point to make. “I’d just as soon not discuss it with anybody. My paperwork is in order, but it wouldn’t reflect poorly on the Order were that not the case. I am not a Jedi any longer, and the Republic has no record of my being one attached to the identity on those papers. I am here as a courtesy to Knight Kafres—whom, as you say, I deliberately misled. I felt that he would appreciate me filling in some of the blanks in his report.” 

Master Plo raised his hands and steepled them before him in a familiar way. 

“Your concern for the young Knight is appreciated,” he said. “But it is the opinion of this Council that your actions on Eriadu, and especially afterwards on Thyferra, are indicative of a very close interest in the affairs of the Order—beyond the wellbeing of one inexperienced Knight. It is therefore our objective to determine what that interest may be, and judge whether such actions were undertaken in good faith.” 

_ Interesting. _

Liura tilted her head respectfully in his direction. “Of course, Master.” 

“How did you come to be at the Governor’s Gala? It is the understanding of this Council that the event is one of the most exclusive events in Eriadu society.” 

“Politicians’ aides are not always entirely accounted for on the guest list,” said Lia. “And House Dara was willing to adopt me for the night, if necessary, though they of course would have preferred that nothing could be traced back to them.”

“Why House Dara?”

She smiled wryly. “House Dara has been busy consolidating a great deal of economic power on Eriadu, particularly in the Health business sector. In effect, while Tarkins and Valorums squabble over the Governor’s seat, House Dara actually does most of the lobbying for legislative control. They also keep very close tabs on the other two Houses.” 

“House Dara was willing to provide you with information on the other families, then?” 

“Yes, and some of it is rather interesting.” Lia produced a datastick from her sleeve. “I have copies of some official records here, if it’s of any interest.” 

At a gesture from Master Plo, a nervous-looking Council Padawan darted forward to take the datastick. Lia handed it off to them with a kind smile. 

“There is some slim but intriguing evidence to suggest that Governor Tarkin was at least aware of the Nebula Front’s presence on Eriadu. House Dara’s source claims Governor Tarkin met with the leader of the terrorist group before the assassination of the Trade Federation’s Board of Directors. There’s not enough to confirm that Wilhuff Tarkin himself ordered the cases suppressed, but the Right Honourable Judge Vellis was most illuminating on that score. Off the record, of course.” 

Master Plo glanced up briefly from his datapad display. He seemed impressed—but Lia hadn’t seen him in a very long time, and she didn’t trust herself to remember how to read all of the Kel Dor’s microexpressions; maybe it was wishful thinking. 

“Nebula Front—the terrorist group?” asked Master Gallia. “The group that attacked the Trade Summit last year?”

“The founding members of the Front had a disagreement about a year ago over the…  _ effectiveness _ of peaceful protest. There’s been a split. The Front is for the most part still interested in peaceful protest, but the group that preferred a more direct action needed funds. I don’t have proof that Governor Tarkin had them paid for the Trade Summit attack, but of course he isn’t careless enough for it to have been a direct transfer of funds.”

“This is very thorough,” Master Plo said. “I see you instructed Knight Kafres on how to appropriately verify the information.” 

Liura nodded. “Judge Vellis I spoke to myself—that was a particularly sensitive situation. But I made sure Knight Kafres confirmed as much of House Dara’s intel as possible; he might have been acting on my instructions to a degree, but he  _ is _ a good investigator.” 

“Very good. Now: what about the bacta shipment you addressed to the Temple?” 

Lia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, as I’m not a Jedi, and was therefore not representing the Republic… House Dara requested something of me in return for their assistance. A favour.” 

The slight twitch of Kel Dor’s brow hinted at some apprehension. “What sort of service were you asked to provide?”

_ Nothing so dire,  _ Lia wanted to say; but then again, it was a matter of perspective. She hadn’t simply done a service for House Dara, after all. For that matter, she could be said to have taken certain liberties, by negotiating a deal with the Vratix in the name of the Order without the High Council’s knowledge or approval. 

“You may recall references in older Archive texts to a miracle-cure salve or paste called Kolto, in use during the Great Sith Wars. It’s an organic substance that originated on Thyferra, which is within the Seswenna sector and a few days’ sublight travel from Eriadu. Towards the end of the war, the demand for Kolto was so great that the original strain went extinct. The Thyferrans closed their borders and have been rather hesitant about trading since. They have regrown it in the form of a different, hardier strain now—with certain tradeoffs. It’s called  _ bacta, _ in their language.” 

“Effective?” 

“Very.” Lia straightened out. “The clever thing about both bacta and Kolto is that it has the ability to adapt to the species it is meant to treat. Quite easily adaptable to most Humanoid lifeforms.” 

“And quite a lucrative investment for House Dara.” 

“Exactly. Thyferrans have been resistant to setting up a trade agreement with anybody, for good reason. House Dara’s main medical supply company, Seswenna Synthetics, offered them a contract the Thyferrans felt was quite attractive, but they soon became concerned that Seswenna Synth was overcharging for the product and artificially limiting access to serve only the Eriadu elite. Moreover, the Tarkin family was rather interested in acquiring the product themselves. You’ll recall the Stark Hyperspace War, of course; the Thyferrans hired the pirate Iaco Stark and his fleet to form a defence against an invasion force under Ranulph Tarkin’s command.” 

_ Now _ there was silence in the Council chambers. 

Lia was well aware of the Order’s involvement in the Stark Hyperspace War, and the Jedi they’d lost. Plo’s Master had been among them.  _ Sorry, Master, _ she thought. There was no telling if he could actually hear her apology, but Liura imagined that his shoulders loosened just a little. 

They had to know—Lia would stand by that. The Order had received an assignment from the Senate and gone in without crucial intel. The Jedi had been ordered to fight for the side they might not have chosen themselves. 

Liura forged ahead. “I re-negotiated a more satisfactory agreement between Thyferran government and Seswenna Synthetics. Segir Dara was not entirely pleased with the resulting arrangement, as the Thyferrans retain control over most of their product.” 

Lia shifted again. “The Vratix were also willing to negotiate a separate agreement for the Order, purely on the basis of research and limited medical use.” 

Master Gallia raised a politely disbelieving eyebrow. “Despite the Order’s involvement in the Stark Hyperspace War? One might say we acted contrary to their interests.” 

Lia shrugged. “I’m persuasive?” 

In truth, Lia didn’t particularly want to share exactly what she’d promised the Thyferrans. She had a feeling she might have to part with some information on her Exchange eventually, but she wouldn’t do it without dragging her feet. 

For the moment, the Council seemed to be willing to let that pass. 

“But why act in the name of the Order?” asked Master Plo. “And why split the original shipment and send half to Naboo?” 

That was not an easy question to answer. “It felt… important, Masters,” Lia said. 

“Important?” Suddenly Master Tiin’s focus seemed to shift from suspicion to outright interest. “Have you been experiencing Visions? Promptings from the Force?” 

Now there was a puzzling question. Lia frowned at the Council, and tilted her head to one side. “Haven’t you?” 

* * *

Obi-Wan must have slept, because it seemed like no time at all had passed between Master Dooku taking his leave and the early morning Healer rounds interrupting his semi-conscious doze. 

Master Dooku, Obi-Wan reflected, hadn’t even stayed long enough for Qui-Gon to wake. For some reason, that thought filled him with a muddled mix of unkind feelings, but he wasn’t up to figuring out why just yet. 

In part, he was just tired; his eyelids were heavy and his eyes weren’t keeping up with him. His brain stubbornly informed him he was missing something, but it was a long moment before Obi-Wan realised exactly what. It turned out he was missing a growth—blond-haired, inexhaustibly excited, incessantly chattering—but that didn’t worry him as much as it might have only two days ago. By now most of the Apprentice Healers had taken turns coaxing at Anakin away for meals and a bit of exploring. Apparently Anakin had already met Vokara Che, and  _ liked _ her, which was one thing Obi-Wan hadn’t even thought to panic about until all was said and done. 

Master Healer Vokara Che oversaw treatment of all Temple younglings up until they reached the age of sixteen—with some variation by species age of maturity. There were exceptions; Healer Terza stepped in for rare conditions, complicated surgical interventions, and certain problem patients: Vokara had been eager to wash her hands of Obi-Wan, in particular. They’d never exactly had trouble getting along before, but they got along much better when Obi-Wan wasn’t at the Healers’ Halls to see her. 

Anakin, on the other hand, turned out to be quite the opposite. Healer Vokara had cut out the control chip! She’d even disarmed it, and given it back to Ani in a jar! Obi-Wan, faced with Anakin’s contagious enthusiasm, had tamped down his amusement and treated the event with all the gravitas it deserved. He’d then put up with the fact that, at least for the next hour, Healer Vokara was the hero of the day. 

Obi-Wan sighed and blearily made his way to the tiny ‘fresher to splash cold water on his face. It helped, a little. Terza probably had the right idea, promising to order him back to quarters later today—not that Obi-Wan would ever admit it aloud. He only hoped Qui-Gon would wake before then. He didn’t want to leave his Master, on the off-chance Qui-Gon would wake and find himself alone. 

When Obi-Wan stepped out of the ‘fresher, he found firstmeal waiting. The Halls of Healing must have gotten first pick of the best commissary droids, because the food was always distinctly better than what the commissary served, but the menu was not materially different. Obi-Wan eyed the tray with some consternation, thinking it was a bit much for one person. 

“Psychic overextension burns up quite a lot of energy, even after the fact,” Terza had told him on Naboo. She’d added that Obi-Wan’s Force-sense was hazy yet, and would remain clouded for some time—so, naturally, it was in his best interest to  _ take care of himself.  _ She’d been quite insistent. 

The tray looked daunting—a generous helping of kashmeal, a protein bar of a far more pleasant variety than ration bars, and two fresh muja fruit. 

“I do hope you’ll save me the fruit, at least,” Qui-Gon said. His voice was hoarse and far too quiet, but it was a welcome sound all the same. 

“At least,” Obi-Wan agreed, momentarily thrown by the missing breathing mask. “How did you—never mind.” 

Morning rounds. Apprentice Healers. Magically appearing food trays. “You’re still on liquid diet, aren’t you?” 

Obi-Wan’s Master couldn’t communicate the entire complexity of his resigned shrug with his shoulders, but his expression did the job well enough. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t help smiling, though, reassured by the humour that sparkled in Qui-Gon’s eyes. “I’m sure there’s room enough in the cold store.” After all, they hadn’t been back on Coruscant for more than a few days at a time in the last six months. 

Qui-Gon eyed the tray pointedly. “You’ll have to at least make an attempt, Obi-Wan, or suffer the Healer’s displeasure.” 

Obi-Wan settled into his seat with a put-upon sigh and a teasing “ _ Yes, _ Master,” which had Qui-Gon grinning. He accidentally sat on the corner of datapad, which lit up immediately and chimed a dull complaint—or, really, an alert for release of the Temple’s most recent Field Notes update—a sort of Temple newsletter. It was one of the better ones, actually: three newsletters were vying for the spot, and Field Notes was the Temple favourite. 

Obi-Wan glanced over it sidelong. “Huh. Care to hear this month’s round of updates?”

“Why not,” Qui-Gon said, without enthusiasm. “Doubt I’ll be getting around much in the near future, may as well catch up on the gossip.” 

Obi-Wan frowned. 

This, of course, was where he ran into trouble: he could no longer sense his Master's mood. Terza kept reminding him of his rather spectacular burnout whenever he brought it up, but from the frayed feeling of the training bond, Obi-Wan had a nagging suspicion that there was more to it than that. He wondered how much of Qui-Gon’s mood was the endless drone of pain, and how much of it was true hopelessness and resignation. 

“It’s six months of physical therapy,” Obi-Wan said mildly. “That’s not so bad.”

“ _ At least _ six months,” Qui-Gon countered, “though it will likely take more than that. Then there’s the recertification to consider—but that’s assuming all goes well.”

Obi-Wan set down the datapad carefully and eyed his Master with concern. “Well, why wouldn’t it?” 

“ _ Obi-Wan, _ ” Qui-Gon huffed, in that long-familiar, fond-exasperated way he usually saved for his Padawan’s worst jokes or his stubbornest moments. “Miraculous medical advances or no, my—” 

Whatever Qui-Gon had been about to say, he suddenly bit the words back and shook his head. “I’ve had a long career as a Consular, and a mostly successful one—better than most Jedi can hope for. An injury like this should have been fatal. It’s ridiculous to deny the very real possibility that I may never be in the field again.”

“It’s equally ridiculous to deny the possibility that you will be field qualified again within the year,” Obi-Wan replied, patient. 

“Obi-Wan—”

“ _ Master. _ ” 

Qui-Gon sighed, and seemed to sink back into the pillows. “Qui-Gon, please,” he said. “You’re no longer my Padawan, Obi-Wan.” 

“Last I checked, my braid wasn’t yet cut,” Obi-Wan retorted. “I  _ asked _ for that, Qui-Gon. The Council agreed to wait. So you see, you won’t get rid of me that easily.” 

Qui-Gon turned his head to look at him again, the expression on his face almost wary. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I  _ want _ to, Qui-Gon. I want to wait until you can stand with me in the Council chambers and cut my braid yourself. I want it to be  _ my Master _ who cuts my braid, not the Grandmaster of the Order. So don’t give me any of that defeatist nonsense.” 

Qui-Gon’s eyes glimmered with suspicious moisture, but he flashed Obi-Wan a crooked grin all the same. “All right, but the same applies to you.” He nodded at the tray in front of Obi-Wan and raised an eyebrow. 

Obi-Wan might have scoffed for show, but to his surprise he also managed to polish off firstmeal without a great deal of difficulty—though he did decide to save one of the muja fruits and the protein bar for later. He also kept Qui-Gon amused with the perfectly mundane Temple goings-on. 

Three gardens were closed for maintenance, and the gardeners were apparently bickering over what species best fit the conditions in each. Confused droids, if found, were to be directed back to maintenance hubs or the nearest hangar bay—the latest software patch appeared to be a little buggy. The techs apologised for any inconvenience. A small section of the Temple was apparently suffering low water pressure. A different section—with no obvious connection to the first—had been flooded. Padawans were reminded that while pranks were a long-standing Temple tradition, one that was even encouraged— _ to a degree _ —it was highly recommended that pranksters refrain from tampering with critical Temple systems in the near future. 

In response to that particular article, someone had left a sly comment about the latest Padawan pranks failing to “live up to that explosion in a lab some sixteen years ago”. The general Temple Maintenance account had replied to that one rather waspishly:  _ Should you have any information regarding the incident in Laboratory 448-Aurek, please contact Master Aduti Magna of the Bursar’s Office @admagna.comp_bursa. _

Master Aduti Magna was the chief auditor in charge of estimating expenses incurred from very badly damaged equipment. Obi-Wan managed to avoid any misfortunes serious enough to merit her attention. (Garen, on the other hand…) 

Qui-Gon chuckled. “I wonder if she would collect the expenses with interest.” 

“Sixteen  _ years _ of interest. That’d be quite a fee,” Obi-Wan noted. “And a destroyed lab? I don’t remember this.” 

“It’s considered a bit of a taboo subject, as it was deeply embarrassing for everyone involved,” Qui-Gon explained. 

“Oh? And here I thought they were just dodging the pecuniary responsibility.”

“Possibly,” Qui-Gon agreed. “But no one ever found the responsible party. The target was an unpopular lab coordinator—almost everyone knew that. The prank was rigged up outside the lab, on the locking mechanism of the door. It wasn’t supposed to blow up, but apparently it was the coordinator’s lucky day, as he’d forgotten to shut off the gas burner in the laboratory the night before.” 

Obi-Wan winced. “Oh, that’s not good.” 

“It really wasn’t. I believe the coordinator paid for damages, ultimately.”

“Lab coordinators are Temple Maintenance staff, aren’t they,” mused Obi-Wan, squinting at the datapad again. 

“No comment,” said Qui-Gon, but Obi-Wan caught sight of the tiny smile. 

“Oh, apparently wampa steak is on the menu for this month.” 

“Really?”

“Recommended sides include linberry sauce, a selection of cheeses from Endor. For those ordering through the Quartermaster’s delivery system, the Quartermaster personally recommends pairing the steak with Alderaanian spring wine.” 

The moue of pure disgust on Qui-Gon’s face was absolutely priceless. 

Aside from Field Notes’ more mundane Temple gossip, there wasn’t much that caught Obi-Wan’s eye. The Current Events column had published Chancellor Valorum’s resignation speech. He didn’t want to read it. 

Obi-Wan set aside the datapad with a sigh. “You had a visitor, last night.” 

“Oh?”

“And he’s got visitors right now,” said someone from the door.

Obi-Wan turned, blinking, and was surprised to see both Master Tahl and Master Giiett hovering in the doorway. 

“Knight Kenobi!” Master Giiett grinned. “Congratulations, Obi-Wan. Garen’s wants to throw you a party, but of your agemates only he and Bant are in-Temple at the moment, so you can count yourself lucky there.” 

Obi-Wan snorted. “Garen would have wanted it to be a surprise, I’m pretty sure.” 

“Eh,” Master Giiett waved that aside. “He’ll get over it.”

“Where is he, by the way?” 

“I do believe he’s commandeered your pathetic lifeform for the day,” said the Combat Master. “Took him down to one of the droid maintenance hubs to introduce the kid to the techs. And the mouse droids. Thick as thieves, those two.”

Tahl shook her head. “Honestly. Mace is already complaining about them. Who came last night?”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help glancing back at his Master. “Master Dooku stopped by,” he said. 

Qui-Gon’s face went completely blank. The same kind of blankness suddenly muted both Master Giiett’s and Master Tahl’s Force presence, leaving Obi-Wan utterly confused. 

“Did he?” Qui-Gon said softly. “I haven’t seen him in years.” 

“He didn’t stay very long—just a few minutes.” 

“And he drops in while you’re unconscious,” said Tahl wryly, “in the middle of the night. Can’t decide whether he’s avoiding you or not.” 

“Maybe he’s avoiding  _ you, _ ” Qui-Gon countered. “You really shook him up that time.” 

“Nonsense. And how did you find your grand-Master, Obi-Wan?” Tahl asked. 

Obi-Wan found that he didn’t have a ready answer. There had been but the faintest impression of sadness and regret about the man; Master Dooku had volunteered little of himself, otherwise. 

Qui-Gon was watching him steadily, Obi-Wan noticed, though his Master’s expression was neutral. 

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Hard to say. He wasn’t exactly an open book.”

“He never was,” Qui-Gon agreed. Obi-Wan pretended to miss the look he sent Tahl’s way. 

“Well, that’s as may be,” Tahl went on briskly. “Obi-Wan, Terza asked me to send you back to your quarters, if you’ve finished firstmeal. Her instructions are for you to shower and sleep, and not necessarily in that order.” 

Obi-Wan glanced back at his Master. He felt a bit ridiculous asking, and yet—“You’ll be all right?” 

Qui-Gon simply looked at him for a long moment, then beckoned him over. Obi-Wan rose from his seat as if he’d been released from some invisible hold, walked up to the side of his Master’s bed and leaned in close. “Master?”

“You need rest at least as much as I do, Obi-Wan,” he said, reaching up to tug affectionately at the Padawan braid.  _ I promise, if anything happens you’ll be first to know, _ he added, through the bond and for them alone. 

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched slightly, chest tight with sudden apprehension, but he did his best to keep it from their bond and from his face. “Just— _ tell _ me, if you need anything? Please,” he whispered. 

Qui-Gon pulled him closer still to press a kiss to his forehead. “I promise,” he insisted, solemn. 

Obi-Wan didn’t entirely believe him, but there would be time to work that out. Later. When he wasn’t too tired to sort through his thoughts and doubts fast enough. 

“We’ll take care of him,” Master Giiett promised. “Yell at him a little, maybe.” 

“Keep a lookout for tall, somber ex-Councilors who forgot how to smile before you were born,” Tahl added. “Personally, I want to yell at  _ him. _ ” 

“Whyever for?” Qui-Gon asked, puzzled. 

“Just to keep my hand in.” 

Obi-Wan shook his head at them, half amused. “I sense a story there that the Padawan is not to know,” he said, picking his way across the room as Micah and Tahl shifted the chairs to converge on his Master. 

“You have the right to form your own opinion of your grand-Master first,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “Afterwards, I will answer any questions you wish to ask.” 

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Obi-Wan quipped, gratified by the faint smile it got him. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, just before he turned to leave. 

Their bond—still distant, so much quieter than it had always been—bloomed warm and comforting in Obi-Wan’s mind. It wasn’t quite the same as it had been, but the improvement was heartening; at least it was enough for Obi-Wan to take the first step out into the hall, then the next, and the one after that. 

* * *

The moment Obi-Wan left his sight, Qui-Gon was well and truly lost, left to the tender mercies of his créchemates. Force knew, Micah and Tahl would have every right to whatever retribution they wished in this, but knowing that didn’t make it easier to face them. 

“Now,” Micah began. 

“You’ve been avoiding us for the last six months,” Tahl said. 

“And running your poor Padawan into the ground.”

“You know how he worries,” Tahl added, with a reproachful look. 

“Not healthy at all, for a young Knight,” Micah agreed. “Now you’ve gone and tried to put yourself on the disabled list,” he tsked, “as if one of us three wasn’t enough.”

“Well—two of us, technically,” Tahl pointed out. 

“Tahl, you haven’t been mission-qualified since you punched Grand Minister Ke’siris of Teth in the face,” Micah corrected. 

“I did say  _ technically. _ ”

“ _ Anyway, _ ” Micah pressed on, “it’s not as if you owe us an explanation, Qui-Gon, but you owe it to that young man to stop and take stock of what’s going on in that head of yours.” 

_ That’s the trouble, though, isn’t it? _ Qui-Gon thought, suppressing a sigh. He had no idea what was going on in his mind. He’d faded out of consciousness in the refinery in Theed’s generator, and woken up with nothing in his head quite the way he’d left it. 

“I can barely feel you, Qui,” Tahl added softly. “The pair bonds—they nearly snapped. I cannot imagine what Obi-Wan must have felt.” 

Qui-Gon could, though; all too well, in fact. Broken shields were one thing; clinical death… Terza had mentioned it, only with Obi-Wan out of earshot. The neurological impact of oxygen deprivation had been limited, but not, Qui-Gon noticed, entirely insignificant. His bond with Obi-Wan was still largely dependent on the physical distance between them, and even in the last few days he would surface from unconsciousness, searching for the training bond in a blind panic. Sometimes it felt like that link was slipping through his mental fingers even when he’d found it. 

Every time he felt that link slipping away, it reminded him all too much of another bond—one that he had practically torn out of his core self, now almost two decades ago. In its place there was a phantom thread reaching away into nothingness. 

“Not,” he said softly, “that this will be of any consolation to you, but—” 

He swallowed down a heavy knot of feeling under Tahl and Micah’s expectant eyes. 

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” Qui-Gon finished quietly. 

Tahl’s shoulders sank. 

Micah swore, viciously. “ _ Dammit, _ Jinn. We did joke that you would be the first of us to go, but for small gods’ sake, you weren’t meant to  _ try! _ ”

“Sorry, Mic,” said Qui-Gon meekly. He didn’t mention that Micah himself had already made the attempt. 

But then Micah obligingly did it for him, possibly to inject a bit of levity back into the situation. “And anyway I thought we’d agreed, I’d settled that for all of us on Yinchorr. No more dying, we said.” 

It almost worked. 

Tahl’s striped green-gold eyes had a suspicious shine to them. “You made us a promise. You swore you’d tell us if you ever felt like—if you ever considered it again.” 

Qui-Gon squeezed his eyes shut. 

Tahl and Micah had seen him through the very worst time in his life. Almost two decades had elapsed since, but some days the memories still seemed near enough to touch. He’d thought himself a failure then, no matter what the Reconciliation Council’s ruling on the matter was: his Padawan had Fallen to the Dark Side, and Qui-Gon hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even suspected. 

Yoda had sent Xanatos du Crion to Telos to face his Trials. At the time, Qui-Gon had had his reservations, and he’d spoken against it—but the Grandmaster’s word was final. Truth be told, standing up to his father  _ was _ a Trial Xanatos would have to one day face; whether it came before or after his Knighthood didn’t much matter. But Xanatos had faced that Trial and failed. 

_ “I hate you,” _ a dark-haired, wild-eyed, bloodied apparition hissed in Qui-Gon’s memories.  _ “I never loved you,” _ it added, maliciously gleeful. 

Qui-Gon remembered that. He also remembered a young boy, pale, dark-haired and indigo-eyed. He remembered sleepless nights, cups of honeyed tea for soothing fevers and Alderaanian lullabies for bad dreams; joyful hours of teaching and unraveling complicated astronav calculations and logic puzzles and diplomatic stalemates. He knew he hadn't imagined that, just as he knew he hadn’t imagined the brief affectionate hugs and the streak of sharp-toothed humour. 

The dissonance—and pain—had been unbearable, at least until Qui-Gon had reached with mental fingers and literally torn the bond from his mind, from his very heart and soul. 

Mental links severed by death were bad enough, whether training or pair-bonds. No one willingly subjected themselves to what Qui-Gon had done; certainly, not without paying a heavy price for it—memory loss, depression, a long and cold recovery time. 

Qui-Gon had never  _ not _ loved his Padawans. Not even when one had pointed a blade at his throat. For years after that moment, he’d wanted, very much, not to have to think of it anymore. Not to think of anything at all. 

Tahl had always seen more of him. It shouldn’t have surprised Qui-Gon that she’d somehow understood his intention—hells, his willingness—to die on Naboo. Better that, after all, than to see that which you loved most taken from you, stolen away by the Dark. 

That did not necessarily mean she’d understood  _ why.  _

“This was… Tahl, I swear to you that this was different.”

“Different how, Qui? Because Force knows, you're worlds better than you were after Xan, but I don’t know what's in your head! I’m  _ scared,  _ Qui. I don’t want to lose you like this.” 

Qui-Gon shook his head slowly. “I made a promise to Obi-Wan, to see him Knighted. I would not break that promise for the world, but—”

But the choice between his life and his Padawan’s was not a choice at all. 

Tahl had always been quick. Understanding dawned, and the look that came over her face was somehow worse than before. She caught his hand and gripped it tight, so tight that his fingers ached. 

“It was him or me,” Qui-Gon whispered. “In the Force, that was clear. Of course it should have been me.” 

Tahl’s grip on his hand loosened all at once, and her mouth dropped open on a small, pained sound. 

“You idiot,” Micah muttered, resigned. “Well, you’re both alive, thank the Force.” 

Amd strangely, that was what left Qui-Gon unsettled. 

“I should have died there,” he whispered. “I should have—”

“Shut  _ up, _ Jinn,” Tahl said, voice incongruously gentle. “We’ll be with you, whatever comes next.” 

Micah nodded, unusually solemn. “We will.” 

Three years had passed since the Yinchorri Uprising. Now, Micah was adapting saber-forms for disabled Jedi; but the change from Combat Master to Master on the disabled list had not come easily. 

Qui-Gon supposed seeing how Micah had adapted to Temple life should have been reassuring. It wasn’t as though Qui-Gon had no idea what to do with himself, even if he could never wield a ‘saber again. A future full of Temple classes wasn’t the worst, though the thought of endless Senate committees rated far below ‘appealing’. He’d been Force-blessed to have as long a time in the field as he’d had, and his record spoke for itself. It was difficult, and yet impossible  _ not _ to admit that he would miss it. 

Who would willingly subject themselves to the threat of death by enemy fire over trade agreements, terms of Republic membership or aid? What sort of a person sank all their life into something so dangerous, mostly unrewarded, and had nothing for themselves when it came to the end? 

_ Jedi, _ Qui-Gon thought, but the voice he heard was not his own. 

It filled him with a cold and bitter feeling, to think that he’d become so attached to the future his Master had wanted for him; it felt an awful lot like resentment. 

* * *

Temple Guards were impressive as ever, but the one who escorted Lia back to her temporarily-assigned quarters was comparatively nondescript, out of the distinctive armour. Their cowl was up, nonetheless, and Lia did not see their face. They did not speak to her, but didn’t seem to mind when Lia spoke to them. 

“I may wander back down to the Halls of Healing,” she said, when they were almost at her door. “At least Terza doesn’t mind talking to me.” 

The Guard simply shrugged, and handed her a datapad. 

The datapad showed one inbound message—from Jale Terza. “Ah. So the verdict on all my scans and blood tests is in,” she said, without any particular enthusiasm. “Well, that should be enlightening.” 

The Guard let slip a faint hint of amusement, which was better than the solid wall of nothingness Lia got otherwise. By then, however, they’d reached her door, and she slipped inside without another word. 

Once out of sight, Lia pulled her shields in closer. Physically, though, she let herself deflate, and slumped against the wall. 

These quarters were tucked away in one of the older wings of the Temple. Few people lived here, now, and indeed there wasn’t much space. The quarters were not all that different from her former Master’s suite, but lacking in a Padawan room. That made the space a bit better than a new Knight’s shoebox or a Padawan’s dorm—there was a separate bedroom, after all, and the balcony opened onto a view of the city where one could still see the sky and sun. The quarters were sparsely furnished, but Lia didn’t much mind. She hadn’t exactly arrived with a cargo of personal belongings. Someone had thoughtfully arranged both a meditation mat and a cushion near the balcony door, should she prefer to meditate outside. Not a bad idea, actually. 

Overall, it was a very thoughtful arrangement. There were some fresh meats and vegetables in the cold store—very likely Terza’s forethought. The Guard may have been amused by her reaction to the test results, but even now Lia could barely hold back a rush of anxiety. She knew exactly what she’d put her body through, and knew she was paying for the damage now—she just didn’t know how much, yet. 

She’d been held in quarantine for two days after her arrival—the minimum window needed to check for any trace of active and contagious infection. Then Terza had pronounced her Temple-safe, with most of her blood tests still running. There was no reason for several-day processing times, not unless Terza had ordered a panel for an extensive physical. Lia had been intrigued at the time. It was a bit difficult to imagine that the Temple was interested in her health, given that she was no longer a Jedi, and yet—such a thorough approach seemed to hint at a more permanent investment. 

Ultimately, though, Lia decided that the tests had been done on Terza’s initiative. Terza, with a Healer’s sense of responsibility, wouldn’t let her back out into the world without making sure she was well and whole. It was more believable than the alternative. 

Force, but she was exhausted. Lia pulled off her boots, then her socks—balled them up and tossed them unerringly across the living space to the bedroom door. It would do for now. 

Lia paused, bit her lip on something that was almost a giggle. The careless toss, ‘leave it for later’—it made her feel a bit rebellious. Messy, in a way her much younger self would never have dared to be. She’d lived in all sorts of conditions in the last few years, some where a mess meant less than nothing. But back in the Temple, it still felt a little sacrilegious. As though at any moment she’d hear footsteps coming down the hall and go scurrying to pick up her balled up socks, desperate to leave the place pristine and clean of any sign she’d ever been there. 

Lia sighed, and shook her head. She padded across to the balcony, bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. The sun would be setting in an hour or so. It was beautiful—one of her favourite sights on a planet too brightly-lit to see the stars, second only to the artificial sky in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. If Lia thought about it too hard, she’d have to admit that she’d missed the place. 

Of course she had. Lia remembered the Twi’lek Quarter and the Mandalorian  _ nakil yaim’la, _ and the Chalactan Town with special fondness. The Chalactan Festival of Lights was unbelievably beautiful, a riot of colours, dancing, and music in the streets. She remembered shadowing Zekar when he took a particularly stupid bet, and went Darkmeat Hunting down below. Lia had never been overly enthusiastic about going back down there again, but she remembered it with a certain (secret) fondness. 

The microdermal comm relay behind her ear hummed a quiet alert. 

“Well, hello,” Lia said, stepping outside and settling herself sideways on the duracrete wall. She leaned forward to rest her elbows on the metal railing above it. “Anything to report?” 

“It’s pretty much what we expected,” Kiro replied. “Bit of a mess down here, nobody knows what’s going on. No stability, no idea who’s taking the lead tomorrow.” 

“No one to rally around?” Lia frowned. “That’s surprising. There’s always  _ someone. _ ” 

Kiro snorted. “Xomit Grunseit.” 

“Ah.” Lia raised both eyebrows. “Really? The  _ muscle? _ ” 

“Garyn’s  _ strong right arm, _ ” Kiro said, eye-roll distinctly audible in her voice. “Most of the smart ones around here know it won’t last, but they have no idea who’ll step in.” 

“How is CSF taking it?” 

“Quietly…” Kiro said, somewhat absently, as though she was peering around a corner or scanning a crowd. Maybe checking for a tail. “Nothing on the channels, anyway. Speaking of,” she added quietly, “a couple of streets down here look bombed-out, but nobody’s saying anything. Judicial thinks it’s the syndicates acting up, but CSF is acting like they know nothing about it. No statement released, no interagency reports, just—nothing.” 

“Huh.” Lia sniffed. “A couple?”

“Yeah, a few city blocks apart. One looks like a speeder fuel-cell overloaded.”

“Oh?”

“It has a pretty distinctive smell to it,” Kori said, “lingers for weeks. That and the transparisteel they use for the windscreens—gets bloody everywhere.”

“Right. The other one?”

“That’s a bit harder to tell, but one of the kids around here has a thing about messy accidents and documenting everything, and—well, based on what I can gather… looks like somebody blew up a carbonite freezer.”

Lia’s jaw dropped. Her mind sorted through all the worst possible scenarios—there were only so many reasons to travel with something as cumbersome as a carbonite freezer, especially given those things weren’t easy to set up on a whim. Some bounties were only paid for delivery of a living mark, and some contractors had… odd preferences. Lia wasn’t sure which applied here. 

Nevertheless, carbonite usually implied a certain amount of travel. “Then it’s likely not syndicate business—not  _ local, _ anyway. CSF just doesn’t want to say they’re investigating. They’d rather Judicial call it a contained riot than have the news crowing about terrorist attacks, not that the Upper Level outlets give a shit, normally.” 

“But if a local publication were to pick it up, they’d run the story?” 

“Yeah, sure. Something middle-weight, like  _ The Coruscant Report. _ ” Lia recrossed her arms and rested her chin on them. “Just enough credibility and integrity to actually report facts, if with an alarmist bent, therefore given to the sort of stuff Upper Level folk dismiss as conspiracy.” 

“Creepy. Li…” 

Kiro hesitated. That was strange. Kiro, formerly Lieutenant Novar of Corellian Sector Security, never hesitated. 

“Yes?”

“Will you be staying there long?” 

Lia smiled at that faint sound of worry. “Well, we could do with having someone among the Jedi, could we not?” 

Kiro huffed. “That’s not an answer. You run the Exchange; will the Jedi let you keep on?” 

With a soft, controlled sigh, Lia pushed herself upright again. “Kiro, my involvement with the Exchange is non-negotiable. If this is a concern that I might abandon all of you, you needn’t worry.” 

Not to mention, she didn’t exactly  _ run _ it—not anymore. She had access to all the files, but a young slicer she’d picked up on Malastare had been the one to take Lia’s vision of a network in balance and make it easily accessible as a powerful database—one that others could update, as well. The Exchange was practically a functional galactic economic market in miniature, and they’d only recently cracked a way to anticipate how changes in the main market would influence their local business. 

_ You can’t call yourself a competitive market until your trade needs to be run by droids, _ Lia had once quipped. Things were, quite literally, looking up. 

“Not… quite. Li, you said yourself that the Jedi serve the Republic, and that you could never do what you’ve done for us if you hadn’t left the Order. Conflict of interest being the foremost problem.” 

“That is true,” Lia agreed, “but not because the Jedi and the Senate are necessarily of one mind. It would help if you remembered who holds the purse strings, Kiro,” she added, a touch more sharply. 

“The Senate. Right. But any activity the Senate disapproves of could still be traced back to you, and if they take you back…” 

“Yes, I know. That is why I don’t know whether I will be permitted to stay here, or even in this city.”  _ Can’t even let myself consider the possibility that they’ll take me back, _ Lia thought. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

Kiro sighed. “You’re right, of course. And we could use a person among the Jedi, but you yourself said it would be easier on Corellia. I  _ know _ why It has to be Coruscant, but—I just… you know what you’re doing, Li. Just be safe, okay?” 

Lia smiled. “Okay. Watch your six, Kiro.” 

“Aye. I’m out.”

Lia sat still, and watched the sun sink below the skyline. 

There was an old lesson wrapped up in the teachings of the Jedi, in the ways of the Force, one that had taken Lia years to understand: attunement to the Force came from a knowledge of self. A knowledge of self meant both a realistic, sober acknowledgement of one’s situation  _ and _ an understanding of one’s desires. A Jedi did not focus on one at the expense of the other when pursuing their goal. In terms of success, that alone often meant all the difference. 

_ You have to  _ want _ it; probability is entirely secondary. _

And Liura was not so great a fool as to deny that she had come to the Temple because she’d wanted to come home. She might not have mentioned it to Kiro, and she might not let herself think too hard about it, but Liura had wanted to come home for a very, very long time. 

She sighed, and turned back inside. In her Padawan days, she’d be having dinner around this time, and something deeply entrenched in her was eager to slip back into old patterns. She didn’t really have an appetite, but the coldstore was stocked, and somewhere Terza was likely preparing a lecture for her on the age-old theme of “the Force is not a substitute for sustenance”. Liura smiled to herself, a touch rueful. She wasn’t a Padawan anymore, and she’d spent most of the last few years on worlds where people could barely feed themselves, but Terza’s reminder wouldn’t go amiss. And, in any case, it was a bit of familiarity to anchor herself against. 

As she eyed the contents of the cold store, it occurred to Lia that she would have to look again at the meticulous records she kept on her Exchange. She was scheduled for at least three meetings with the Reconciliation Council—the minimum for a full debrief of her activities for the last decade, she supposed. Eventually, she would have to share at least some of her hardwon intel and connections. She’d known that before setting foot on the first of the Temple steps. She simply had to make sure to put as few people at risk as possible. 

The prospect of combing through all her records, removing a lot of sensitive information—as much for the network’s safety as the Order’s—was not the brightest one. Lia tended to let record-keeping consume her, crawling away from the comm set days later, wild-eyed and slightly mad. There were people involved in the Exchange who were far better at sorting all the data than she could ever be, anyway. 

Even with half the critical information removed, however, the records would still be a goldmine. Faced with a resource like that, it was entirely possible the Jedi would want to capitalise on it. Given the sort of risk Kaffres had been faced with, Lia would even support that decision. 

It occurred to her that she wasn’t the first Jedi to return after years in the wild—she couldn’t possibly be. Three interviews with the Reconciliation Council, interviews with individual Masters yet to be assigned—all of it had the look of an established process. As though welcoming stray Jedi back into the fold was something the Order had a habit of doing. 

She  _ could _ be getting her hopes up. 

Lia eyed a few vegetables—the makings of a fresh salad—and a nut spread, considering. 

Which was the bigger investment? A series of several interviews to determine a former Jedi’s stability and peace of mind, or a former Jedi walking up the steps and straight to the Reconciliation Council’s tower? It had cost her nothing (but for ten sleepless nights and far too many cups of caff, jittery nerves and shaking hands) to make the attempt. What did it cost the Temple to devote time to take back a lost Padawan? 

She wasn’t sure. 


End file.
